


The Break

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, friends with a hopeful ending to lovers, geralt cares about jaskier so goddamn much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: “No,” Geralt rested his gaze back upon the man, “I do not involve myself in the petty squabbles of men.”“Ah but Witcher, you will do this for me,” Tolrick’s dark eyes flashed.“There is no amount of coin that – ““Oh no. I’m not going to pay you. You will do this service for me without payment.”Geralt almost laughed.“You’re funny,” he growled, standing to leave.“Don’t you want to know why?” the man sneered at him.Geralt sat again, indifference in his expression. Tolrick seemed to be annoyed by this.“You will kill this Baron, free of charge, because I have something that belongs to you,” he snarled, voice low.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 526





	The Break

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

The tavern was warm, comfortable. A pleasant contrast to the rain lashing the small windows and the howling wind outside.

The smell of ale and woodsmoke blanketed the air, and the low hum of chatter was complimented by the delicate strumming of a lute.

The Bard sat at a table by the far window, dressed in a cornflower blue doublet and breeches embellished with red edging, leaning back on his chair, fluttering his fingers over the taught strings of his lute as he let his mind wonder.

The patrons didn’t appreciate the finery of his craft and had wanted songs about tits and ale. Of course, he obliged, but after a few hours of bouncing around the tavern singing every vulgar song he knew to rambunctious applause, he was exhausted and had settled in the corner to just play for the pleasure of playing.

The echoes of lyrics formed in his mind as his fingers repeated particular sections but never anything worth writing down.

It had been too long since his last decent ballad, and he was desperately in need of new material. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen or heard from his muse in months.

It wasn’t unusual to go this long without meeting up with Geralt. By now he was used to the Witcher flitting in and out of his life, even though it still twisted something deep inside him when they parted ways and left him feeling horribly alone.

Whispers and tales of the White Wolf and his daring deeds reached his ear often enough, so he knew Geralt wasn’t dead. That was the worst thing. He hated it. Watching his friend leave and not knowing if he’d ever see him again. If one of these days, news would reach him of the Witcher’s death. 

He didn’t know what he’d do if that day came. He tried not to think about it too much.

He sighed, letting his hands rest against the body of his lute, the melodic vibrations muting under his touch, and watched the rain tear down the rough-cut glass of the window next to him.

The darkness outside made the reflections of the bowels of the tavern bright and sharp, and he narrowed his eyes as he spotted someone staring right at him. 

He turned his head, searching the patrons, and saw the man who was standing in the doorway, soaked through, water still streaming off his chin, straggly black hair clinging to his face. 

The man shifted and marched over to Jaskier’s table, grey eyes hard and expression unreadable. 

The Bard sat up, pulse quickening, trying to look nonchalant and unconcerned. In his experience, when a stranger approached him with the intensity of a thundercloud, the outcome was rarely good.

“You’re the bard?” the man gruffed, stopping short of the table and scattering droplets of water.

“Well,” Jaskier twitched his head to slightly to one side, “I’m definitely A bard. One of many to roam the continent, serenading and delighting with fantastical performances, for the common folk and the high Lords and Ladies. Even for Kings and Queens – “

“The Witcher’s bard,” the man cut in, annoyance ghosting his wind-beaten face.

“Jaskier,” Jaskier blinked at him.

“He’s just arrived. Putting his horse in the stable. Asked for you,” the man gruffed.

Jaskier brightened, the tension in his muscles releasing.

“Right. Good. Thank you, good sir,” he jumped up, packing his lute into its travel case and slinging it over his shoulder.

The man watched him scurry out of the tavern, dark eyes narrowed.

Jaskier was buffeted by the wind and he held his hands up over his head to try and protect his face from the stinging rain.

He quickly set off round the back of the tavern, excitement fluttering in his gut.

He would greet his old friend, catch up on his news as they drank together and, in the morning, they’d set off on some wonderful adventure after whatever monster was the next target like they had never been apart. Falling into their usual patter and routines, enjoying each other’s company, and Jaskier wouldn’t feel lonely anymore, for however long it lasted.

He bundled into the stable, glad to be out of the storm, the strong smell of horse and hay catching in the back of his throat.

A horse nickered when it sensed his presence, blowing hard though its nostrils, its glassy eyes dilated as he walked past. Jaskier didn’t notice its unease.

There was a noise coming from one of the stalls further down.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called as he approached.

He peered into the stall.

“Geralt? Where are yo-you’re not Geralt!”

***  
A tankard was pressed into Geralt’s hand by a beaming barmaid. 

The joyous laugher and celebrating that filled the inn generated a very different atmosphere than the one he had walked into this morning. 

The desperate villagers had begged him to help them, scraping together what little coin they had, to rid them of the Drowners that had been plaguing the river that ran past the town.

Geralt had sighed and refused their coin, asking for a free meal and a bed for the night as payment instead.

The villagers had gratefully accepted his request and he had set off to deal with the slimy pests. 

It hadn’t taken him very long, Drowners were not the smartest of creatures, a nuisance in that they ambushed people who roamed too close to the waters edge and dragged them down to their deaths, but easy enough to overcome and destroy.

The villagers had thrown a party in his honour at the inn, with music and dancing and plenty of beer and wine to go around.

Geralt perched at a small table in the corner, thumbing his tankard and watching the villagers in their jubilation. 

When a messy rendition of Toss A Coin broke out, performed directly to him, Geralt rolled his eyes and took a deep drink.

Even though it was the song that had made him famous, the darn thing kept getting stuck in his head and he often found himself almost humming it as he rode along the winding country roads. Not that he’d ever tell its creator. 

He thought of Jaskier often when they weren’t traveling together. He’d never admit this to the bard either, but he missed him. Missed his nonsensical babbling, his impromptu jamming sessions, his playful charm. He missed his laugh. He missed his presence. 

Witchers were solitary, unfeeling beings who slayed monsters for coin. Never staying in one place for long. Never making connections with the people they helped. The company of whores was the closest they ever got and even then, it was a paid interaction. 

And that had been his life. Until he met Jaskier. The young bard who had somehow managed to wriggle his way into Geralt’s heart and remain there, no matter how hard Geralt tried to push him out. He was thankful that Jaskier’s stubbornness had kept him by his side. He had never had a friend before, and he was learning every day what it meant to care for another being in such a way.

Geralt studied the contents of his tankard. He hoped their paths would cross again soon.

He became aware of someone watching him. He lifted his amber eyes and spotted a man leaning in the corner, grey eyes fixed on him.

Geralt dropped his gaze, waiting to see what the man would do.

After a time, the man wove his way through the merry villagers and sat opposite him.

Geralt studied him. 

His tanned face was lined with his years and his thin black hair framed his sharp cheek bones. There was the shadow of stubble gracing his square jaw and his eyes were the colour of granite.

He wore fine clothes, though a little dirty. Not the silks of the high Lords and Barons, but more expensive than the common man. A Laird maybe?

A tattered, well worn cloak was draped over his shoulders, and a short sword was tucked into his belt.

He smelled of sweat and earth and rain. And there was another scent on him, faint, barely lingering, that Geralt thought he recognised but couldn’t place. 

“Can I help you?” Geralt grumbled after the man just stared at him in silence. 

“Witcher,” the man’s voice was raspy and unpleasant, “My name is Tolrick. I have a job for you.”

Geralt said nothing, inviting Tolrick to continue with his silence.

“There is someone I need you to kill.”

“Someone?” Geralt frowned.

The man nodded.

“A Baron. He has ailed me, stolen my wife, ransacked my home, chased me and my men out of our land.”

“No,” Geralt let his eyes flick away as he took another drink.

“No?”

“No,” Geralt rested his gaze back upon the man, “I do not involve myself in the petty squabbles of men.”

“Ah but Witcher, you will do this for me,” Tolrick’s dark eyes flashed.

“There is no amount of coin that – “

“Oh no. I’m not going to pay you. You will do this service for me without payment.”

Geralt almost laughed.

“You’re funny,” he growled, standing to leave.

“Don’t you want to know why?” the man sneered at him.

Geralt sat again, indifference in his expression. Tolrick seemed to be annoyed by this.

“You will kill this Baron, free of charge, because I have something that belongs to you,” he snarled, voice low.

“Hm,” Geralt’s interest fluttered, mild curiosity tilting his head, “Something that belongs to me?” 

He blinked slowly, not missing Tolrick’s slight flinch at his tone. Good, he thought, he fears me.

“Come with me and you’ll see what I mean,” the man rose sharply, paused to see if Geralt would follow and when the Witcher stood again, he whipped round and stalked out of the inn.

Villagers greeted Geralt as he passed, trying to shake his hand and thank him again, promising he would have a nice, warm room, and a bath run for him if he so wished it, upon his return.

He followed Tolrick out of the village, a few paces behind him so he could prepare for an attack if it came, from the man himself, or his men, which is where Geralt assumed he was being led to.

The man kept a fast pace and they crested the rise of a sweeping hill and followed the dirt track down towards the copes of trees on the other side before the sun had started its decent down the vast blue sky.

Geralt spotted an orchard a few lengths to the east and made a mental note to stop by there to get apples for Roach on the way back to the village, as an apology to her for leaving her cooped up in the inn’s stables.

They entered the copse of trees, the scent of pine and moss creeping in around him, and Tolrick stopped in a small clearing.

Geralt halted a few paces behind him, fingers ghosting over the hilt of the blade at his hip.

The man turned to face him, grey eyes as hard as stone.

“This is why,” he growled, lifting his arms up in signal. 

As if emerging from the trees themselves, seven men slunk into the clearing, all armed to the teeth, and stood around Tolrick. 

“Do you really think you’re a match for me? A Witcher?” Geralt scoffed, quickly assessing the size and strength of each man. It was too easy. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight.

“No,” Tolrick flashed him a wicked smile, eyes sparking dangerously.

An eighth man came into the clearing and dragged with him – 

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s blood ran cold.

That was it. The scent he had picked up on Tolrick earlier. Orange blossom and woodsmoke and ink and resin. Jaskier. 

The Bard looked rough, dishevelled. His doublet was torn in several places. His eyes were wide with fear and his breathing was sharp. He was dirty, and through the dirt, Geralt could see fresh bruises staining the skin on his neck, under his left eye. He could see the cut on his lip.

“Geralt?” Jaskier launched himself at the Witcher but the eighth man caught him, pulling him flush against his larger body, one hand fisted in his hair, the other closed around his neck.

Jaskier clawed at his arm as the fingers tightened, putting pressure on his windpipe.

Geralt forced himself to be stoically calm, fingers twitching over his sword.

“You think this will make me do your bidding?” he tossed his head back with disinterest.

A twitch of surprise crossed Tolrick’s face.

“This man is just a Bard. I am a Witcher. He means nothing to me,” he let his gaze flick to Jaskier who was trembling in his captors iron grip, “Killing him wont change my mind on the matter, so you may as well let him go.”

Tolrick seemed unsure for a moment, but then resolve set his jaw.

“We shall see,” he grumbled.

He nodded to the man holding Jaskier and the man forced Jaskier to his knees. The noise Jaskier made twisted Geralt’s gut and it took everything he had to force himself to stay where he was.

The man held one of Jaskier’s arms twisted painfully up his back, and grabbed the other by the wrist, holding it outstretched. 

Jaskier struggled, breath whimpering in his chest and he cried out when the man dug his knee into his back, keeping him immobile. 

“You will do as I have asked of you,” Tolrick circled slowly towards the Bard.

Geralt glared at him, his amber eyes ablaze.

“If you touch him – “ he snarled, unable to contain himself any longer.

Triumph lit up Tolrick’s face.

“Ah, ah Witcher. Make a move against me and he dies,” the man stopped by the Bard and lifted his chin up so he could smirk into Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier spat at him, defiance burning in his eyes.

Tolrick flinched back and backhanded Jaskier. The noise of the blow rang round the clearing and Geralt lurched forwards.

“Stop Geralt,” the man snapped, halting him in his tracks, “Now let’s try this again. Do the job for me.”

Geralt stayed silent, breathing hard, chest tight.

“Fine,” Tolrick crouched down and ran his fingers along the back of Jaskier’s outstretched hand, “I think I’ll start with his fingers. For what is a Bard if he can’t play his lute?”

“No!” Jaskier wailed, trying to wrench himself free from his restrainer but the man held tight, rendering him completely helpless. 

Tolrick took Jaskier’s index, middle and ring fingers and bent them slowly back until they could go no further and then kept applying the pressure. His eyes never left Geralt.

The Bard let out a long cry of pain as the strain on his joints became unbearable.

Geralt stood, eyes wide, heart thundering unnaturally fast for a Witcher. He couldn’t let this man win. Couldn’t give in to him. But if he didn’t, he would break Jaskier’s fingers and the Bard would probably never play the lute again. He couldn’t bear the thought of Jaskier’s misery and suffering, of him never being able to do the one thing he loved more than anything else in the world, the one thing that set him apart from other troubadours, his skill, his genius with the instrument, never again. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier wailed, tears in his eyes as his fingers were pushed harder, “Please. Geralt.”

The way his voice broke when saying his name made Geralt feel physically ill.

“Fine,” he growled, “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” Tolrick’s face twisted in a grin and he gave a sharp jerk with his hand. 

Jaskier’s fingers snapped and the bard screamed.

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Geralt roared, whipping out his sword and advancing.

“Back off Witcher,” the man snarled, squeezing Jaskier’s broken fingers, forcing another scream from him.

Geralt slammed to a stop, shaking with pure rage.

“Why?” he thundered.

“Because it took you too long to agree to kill my Baron for me,” he shrugged, letting Jaskier go and rising to meet Geralt’s hard glare.

The man restraining Jaskier let him go and he crumbled forwards, cradling his damaged hand to his chest, trembling and sobbing.

“Now go and get it done before I break another part of him,” Tolrick placed his foot on Jaskier’s head and pressed hard.

Jaskier stilled, breath ragged.

“Fine,” Geralt growled, “Let him go.”

Tolrick stepped over to Geralt, leaving the other man to drag Jaskier up and hold him on his knees again.

Geralt looked at Jaskier and when amber eyes met blue, it took all his strength to not look away again.

“I’m coming back for you,” he promised.

***  
Geralt paced at the edge of the copse of trees. Anger boiled the blood in his veins.

Tolrick had told him where he could find this Baron. A day’s ride to the west. A whole day. And then another whole day back again. Not to mention the time it would take to find the damn man and get close enough to kill him in-between. He couldn’t leave Jaskier with Tolrick and his men for that long. Gods only knew what they would do to him.

No. He wasn’t going after the Baron. That much he had decided. What he was trying to work out now was how he was going to get Jaskier out of there without further injury.

He had a plan. A vague plan. Half a vague plan.

He cursed himself for his inability to think straight. The look on Jaskier’s face, the noise he made when his fingers broke. It played over and over again in his mind.

“Fuck!” he bellowed, kicking the nearest tree and the shiver that rippled up its trunk sent a shower of pine needles down on him.

He brushed them off furiously, tugging at his ashen hair to dislodge the needles. He paused for a moment, looking at the ground carpeted in sharp pine needles, hoping for inspiration.

He chewed his cheek.

To work out what he was going to do he would need to observe Tolrick and his men. Watch their movements and patterns. Study for any weak links in their defences. Then he would be able to make a plan to get to Jaskier. Know your enemy. It was the same on a hunt. It was the same now.

He stalked slowly back to the clearing, feet light, barley disturbing the ground underneath, ears alert, eyes sharp, nostrils flared. Every sense tuned in and acute. 

He moved a wide circle round the clearing, sweeping for anyone they had put on watch. He came across no one. They obviously felt safe where they were, expecting him to have gone off to kill the Baron.

The light was getting low as the sun slowly sank towards the horizon. Not a problem for himself, his mutated sight adjusted quickly, but the men in the clearing started a fire. Its orange glow danced through the trees and Geralt approached quietly. 

He crouched at the edge of the clearing, concealed by bracken and tall ferns.

The eight men were lounging around the shallow fire pit. One was toasting bread in the flames. Another was gesticulating wildly as he told a story. A third was plucking harshly at Jaskier’s lute.

Tolrick sat apart from his men, perched on a tree stump at the far end of the clearing, his attention on the grinding stone he was using to sharpen his blade.

And then there was Jaskier, not ten yards from where Geralt was hiding, bound tightly to a tree. Geralt could see the way his fingers stuck out oddly and suppressed the noise rising in his throat. He wasn’t sure if Jaskier was unconscious or not. His head lolled to one side and tremors wracked his body. 

Geralt looked back at the men, at Tolrick. They were all a good distance away from Jaskier, not bothering to guard him or watch him. There was no need. 

Geralt knew what he was going to do, and Gods was he going to enjoy it. He rummaged in his pocket for a small vile of black liquid, popped the cap and tipped the contents down his throat.

He could feel the surge through his veins as it took affect quickly. He withdrew his sword and studied his reflection in the blade. His skin was wax white. His eyes blacker than pitch.

He rose from his hiding spot, eerily calm, and strode into the clearing.

The man with the lute spotted him first.

“Witcher!” he yelped, scrambling to his feet and snatching up his sword, lute laying forgotten on the thin grass.

He ran at Geralt as the others rushed to join him and Geralt felled him down in one low swing of his sword.

He parried the blow of another man, the force sending the man tumbling to the ground and Geralt thrust his sword deep into his chest.

Two more men attacked at once. Geralt side stepped them both and they crashed into each other. He leaped nimbly out of their way and slashed his blade down through the nearest man’s shoulder, splitting him open right down to his hip. The other man screamed as he was soaked in blood and Geralt removed his sword with a swift jerk and then swung it at the screaming man, taking his head clean off.

“Stop him!” Tolrick screeched.

The four remaining men advanced on him. Geralt could see Tolrick trying to slip round the clearing, edging towards Jaskier.

The four men rushed him, but he cast the sign Aard, sending them all flying back as the telekinetic wave erupted from his outstretched fingers. One of the men landed on the fire and he yowled in pain.

He then spun on the spot and threw his sword at Tolrick. The blade thudded into his thigh and straight through the other side. Tolrick howled as his leg buckled.

Geralt advanced on him like a dark cloud and Tolrick scrambled to get away.

“Witcher! Witcher!” he gasped through his pain.

Geralt tore his sword free of Tolrick’s flesh, blood spurting from the wound.

He leaned over the man, sneer twisting his lips. Tolrick whimpered, eyes blown wide as he looked up into Geralt’s black eyes.

Geralt could smell the fear rolling off him in waves. Good, let him be afraid, let him suffer.

The Witcher snarled at the man and Tolrick almost fainted but not before Geralt fisted his hands into his collar and hoisted him up into the air.

“Do you see?” Geralt growled in his face, “What I am? Why you shouldn’t have crossed me?”

“Monster,” Tolrick rasped, hands clinging to Geralt’s arms.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, dropping the man and spearing him in the stomach with his sword.

The strangled cry that escaped Tolrick’s lips ending in a gurgle as blood bubbled on his lips.

Instead of finishing him off, the Witcher left the man to bleed out and turned back to face the remaining four men.

They had struggled to their feet, took one look at him and spun round, taking flight into the trees.

Cowards, though Geralt.

He could feel the potion wearing off now and his breathing became heavy in his chest. His limbs suddenly felt weary and his knees shook as all the rage and emotion fizzled out.

He rushed over to Jaskier, kneeling beside him and cutting the rope binding him to the tree with his bloodied sword.

Jaskier whimpered as he fell forwards and Geralt caught him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped.

“Shh,” Geralt stroked a hand down the side of the bard’s face, letting it linger on his cheek a moment, “You’re safe now. Can you stand?”

Geralt helped Jaskier to his feet. The Bard grit his teeth through his pain, keeping his damaged hand close to his chest.

He wobbled then he grunted as his knees gave way. Geralt caught him, supporting him up.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he mumbled.

***

Geralt had scooped Jaskier up into his arms halfway back to the village and carried him the rest of the way.

The Bard had made a noise of protest but let his head rest against Geralt’s chest, too weak to insist on trying to walk.

The Witcher stormed into the village, the moon riding high in the sky now, and shouted for a healer.

A few heads poked round doors to see what was going on.

“I need a healer!” Geralt bellowed again.

“Aye sir,” a squat, balding man draped in a navy robe beckoned him over, “I am a healer sir.”

“I need your help,” Geralt growled, striding towards him.

“Come in, come in,” the man scurried into his house and beckoned Geralt to follow.

The Witcher maneuvered Jaskier carefully through the doorway.

“Put him on the chair there,” the man indicated the small armchair by a smouldering fireplace.

Geralt slid the Bard gently into the chair. Jaskier hissed in pain, blue eyes watering.

“What’s his ailment?” the healer tottled closer.

“His hand,” Geralt choked, kneeling down beside Jaskier, a hand on his thigh for comfort. Jaskier was shuddering under his touch.

“Oh my,” the man eased Jaskier’s damaged hand away form his chest so he could get a good look at it. 

Geralt could tell it was taking everything Jaskier had to not snatch it back.

“Very, very nasty,” the healer shook his head.

“Can you fix him?” Geralt growled.

“I can try,” the man nodded his head.

“No, you must!” Geralt snapped and the man jumped back a little, “He’s a bard.”

“Oh dear,” the healer paled slightly.

He busied himself with gathering what he needed as Geralt looked back at Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, fear brimming in his blue eyes.

“Shh,” Geralt tried to sooth him, even though he was quaking himself, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Jaskier blinked, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Geralt brushed it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m so sorry,” he swallowed hard, amber eyes wide with sorrow.

The healer bustled back and set up a small table next to the chair. He carefully pulled Jaskier’s ruined hand onto it, carefully lying the fingers as flat and straight as he could.  
Jaskier jerked in pain, his breath sobbing in his chest.

“He must be still,” the healer glanced at Geralt, “I need to reset the bones before I can secure them and bandage him up.”

“Can’t you give him something? For… for the pain at least?” Geralt pleaded.

The healer shook his head.

“He is already in shock,” he bit his bottom lip, “Giving him something might cause his body to shut down.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted.

“This will hurt. You will want to hold his arm against the table as still as possible and keep him from getting up out of the chair.”

Geralt nodded, rising to take position. He clamped Jaskier’s arm to the table and then placed his forearm across Jaskier’s chest, leaning his weight on him.

He caught Jaskier’s eyes, faces close enough that they were breathing each other’s air and Geralt could feel the heat emitting from his skin.

“I’ve got you,” he hummed and Jaskier set his jaw in determination.

“Here goes,” the healer breathed.

He set to work and Jaskier screamed, writhing about in the chair as Geralt pinned him down.

“I’m sorry Jaskier. I’m sorry,” Geralt grit his teeth.

He kept Jaskier’s arm impossibly still so the healer could work and tucked his other arm round Jaskier, pulling him flush against his chest, burying his nose in Jaskier’s soft, dark hair.

Jaskier sobbed into his shoulder, gurning with pain as the healer moved his broken fingers. His free hand fisted into Geralt’s shirt.

The Bard howled when the healer twisted his fingers straight. His breath shuddered and he went limp. Silent.

“Jaskier?” Geralt pulled the young man’s head back so he could look at him, stomach in knots.

His face was deathly pale, his lips flecked with spittle. Geralt could still hear his pulse beating rapidly under his skin.

“Just passed out,” the healer confirmed what he suspected, “You can let him go.”

Geralt didn’t want to. He wanted to hold onto Jaskier, to convey comfort through the pressure of fingertips, to feel his breath against his skin, to keep him safe.

But he leaned back, releasing Jaskier’s arm, his other arm snaking from around him and falling at his side. 

He was hit with a sudden weariness.

“You should rest,” the healer glanced at him.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

***  
Six weeks had passed since the healer had done his best to mend Jaskier’s hand.

He had been able to give Jaskier a medical remedy to help with the pain and healing when the Bard had woken two days after the event.

Geralt had taken him back to the inn and been told to keep the Bard quiet, something that had been worryingly easy to do, and to make sure he drank plenty of water and ate decent meals. 

The villagers had been more than happy to help with anything they needed.

He had managed to help Jaskier bathe, trying not to grimace at the bruises patterning the Bard’s chest and back, and dressed him in clean clothing. 

Once Jaskier was settled in a comfortable bed and had fallen asleep, Geralt tended to Roach, then went back to the clearing in the copse of trees to retrieve Jaskier’s lute.

The Bard had teared up and looked away when he saw it, so Geralt had placed it under the bed.

They spoke of… many things over the weeks, with regular visits from the healer to check on Jaskier’s progress. 

On the fifth week, the squat man had declared that the bones had healed and had taken off the bandages and splint keeping Jaskier’s hand still. But it would take time to regain the strength in the fingers. He had given Jaskier multiple exercises to do to help with this and told them that they shouldn’t need him again, but to call for him if there were any problems.

Geralt did the exercises with Jaskier every day, and he hated how frustrated and irritable Jaskier had become when he wasn’t seeing the progress he had hoped for.

“It’s still early. The healer said it could take months before you can use it properly again,” he had tried but he had been met with sharp comments and distain. 

Patience had never been Geralt’s strong suit but for Jaskier, he had all the time in the world.

It was at breakfast on the first day of the sixth week when Jaskier had apologized to him for being so difficult.

“Jaskier,” Geralt hummed.

“No, I am Geralt. I’m so sorry. You’ve been so good to me and I’ve been acting like a horse’s arse,” Jaskier’s blue eyes blazed with earnest.

Geralt had hugged him. A warm, soft, tender embrace and when Jaskier had curled into him, he couldn’t help the smile that lit up his face.

The end of the sixth week was drawing near and Geralt was readjusting the Roach’s saddle bags, tightening her girth and making sure she was ready for travel.

Jaskier needed to get out of this village, go somewhere new, and when he had assured Geralt he was well enough to travel, Geralt agreed. He too was becoming restless, and was excited to set off again, even if it was to just go to the next town over.

He patted Roach on the nose and went back into the inn to fetch Jaskier.

He took the stairs up to the rooms two at a time and went to push Jaskier’s door open when he stopped. He could see through the crack in the door and he held his breath.

Jaskier was perched on the edge of his bed, his lute in his lap. His good hand had wrapped around its neck, fingers pressed against the strings. His recovering hand was hovering over the stings on its body. 

He tried to press his fingers to the taut strings. His hand was shaking. His face screwed up in pain. Tears leaked from his eyes as he let his hand drop and he hunched over as he cried.

Geralt came into the room quietly. He sat on the bed next to Jaskier, slid the lute off his lap, looped his arms around him and pulled him close.

Jaskier let Geralt hold him as he tucked his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck. 

“You’ll get there,” Geralt mumbled, his voice vibrating in his chest, “You will.”

***  
“A performance from the bard!” one of the tavern’s patrons called.

A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd and Jaskier swallowed hard.

The strength was returning to his hand. He’d been able to strum his lute along with a few simple tunes, but this would be his first public performance in about three months.

“You don’t have to do this,” Geralt whispered in his ear.

“I want to,” Jaskier set his jaw stubbornly and Geralt sighed.

“Fine. One song. Then see how you feel after that. Don’t push yourself too hard, Jaskier. You don’t want to make it worse again,” Geralt grumbled.

“Yes mother,” Jaskier quipped at him.

Geralt rolled his eyes and sat deftly at a table tucked in the corner. He kept a close eye on Jaskier as the bard took up a position in front of the hearth, the tavern’s patrons watching him expectantly.

“I apologise if this is shit. I’ve been out of the game a while and I’m a little rusty,” Jaskier grinned at his audience, his animated charm falling right back into place.

He started up. A simple ditty about a farmer’s daughter who ran away with an elf.

Geralt watched his fingers expertly navigate the lute, fluttering over the strings, complementing his singing as if nothing had happened.

He thought he did see a tiny tremor in his hand but Jaskier shook it off and beamed broadly as he finished with a flourish.

Geralt clapped along with the patrons and Jaskier flashed him a wink.

The bard flexed his hand a moment then launched into another ditty about a King who had a pig-faced girl for a daughter.

Geralt relaxed back into his chair as he watched his friend thrive in his element. He quietly thanked any God who was listening that they had given his bard back to him. 

Things could return to normal. Traveling together, Geralt hunting and Jaskier composing a ballad about it. 

Two friends having adventures together. Though, as he watched Jaskier dance about, a warmth creeped though him and his gut fluttered. Maybe their friendship was evolving into something more… well, more.

Who knew what the future held, but for the first time in his life, Geralt was hopeful.


End file.
